Gervase indicated a colleague.
“Canon Hubert has told you of the royal estates and listed all the tenants-in-chief in this part of the county. King William took that land into his possession after the Conquest in 1066, but much else was spared. He respected the dispositions made by his predecessor and ratified them at his succession.” Disagreement festered in the hall, but nobody gave it voice. “That predecessor was King Edward the Confessor, a good friend to Normandy, where he spent so many years in exile. But England had another king after Edward.”
There was a buzz of astonishment. The Normans had tried to oblit-erate the memory of King Harold from the public mind and to consign him to history as a renegade, yet here was a senior member of the king’s household daring to recognise the existence of the last Saxon ruler of the island. Prior Baldwin was scandalised, Subprior Matthew was outraged, and Hugh de Brionne was seething with fury. Both Canon Hubert and Brother Simon tried to signal their disapproval and even Ralph Delchard was discomfited.
Gervase ignored the hubbub and moved steadily on.
“Grants of land under King Edward were acknowledged. I have such a document before me. Grants of land under King Harold were void. I have an example of that here as well.” Gervase held up a charter in each hand. “On the right, you see a grant of land to Heregod of Longdon, father of the miller Alric. It is a royal charter issued by King Edward. On the left, you see a grant of land to Wulfgeat, lately a burgess of this town. It is a royal charter issued by King Harold. One of these charters is still valid; one is not. They are linked, however, in a more sinister way.” Gervase put the charters side by side on the table. “Because of these same documents, two men died in Savernake Forest.”
The ripple of noise burst into a surge of speculation and Ralph had to thump the table and yell before he brought it under control again.
Gervase was brisk with detail.
“As you all know,” he said, “King Edward loved hunting. While riding in the royal forest at Queenhill, in the county of Worcestershire, he was thrown from his horse and knocked senseless. They carried him to a house on the outskirts of the village of Longdon where he rested and recovered. He showed his gratitude to his host by granting him four hides of land near one of his favourite hunting lodges. It was here in Bedwyn.” Gervase had learned the whole story now.
“Heregod moved his family here and occupied the mill, but his charter went astray when King Edward died. There was bitter conflict over the holding. Two of those hides came into the hands of Wulfgeat by courtesy of King Harold, but they were taken away again after the Conquest. Heregod lost four hides; Wulfgeat had two of them, then lost both. Where did they go?”
He looked first at Prior Baldwin and then at Hugh de Brionne. Both began to squirm slightly. Gervase struck home.
“The abbey seized Heregod’s land by means of a forged charter,” he decreed. “Hugh de Brionne took the two hides of Wulfgeat with no charter at all beyond the use of force.”
Uproar ensued. The accused parties jumped to their feet to plead their innocence while the rest of the hall chanted their guilt. Ralph Delchard bellowed for silence, Canon Hubert delivered an impromptu sermon on the merits of restraint, and Brother Simon waved his quill ineffectually in the air. The four men-at-arms were quite unable to stifle the chaos. It seemed as if the commission’s business would have to be suspended. Then the pandemonium ceased abruptly. Nobody seemed to know why at first and they stared at each other open-mouthed. Then they realised what had altered the whole atmosphere inside the hall. Abbot Serlo had entered.
He stood in the doorway with quiet dignity and waited while a path hastily cleared itself in front of him. Then he made a stately progress towards the table and held out a magisterial hand. Gervase gave him the charter which had come from the miller’s chest and the abbot studied it with glaucous eyes. Prescience had brought him to the hall and conscience made him ready to face his accusers. Only he could truly speak for his abbey. In delegating the task to his subordinates, he was shirking a sacred duty. It was still not too late to make amends.
He could not tarnish his hopes of sainthood at the eleventh hour.
Abbot Serlo finished reading the document, then turned to address the hushed gathering. There was no hint of complaint, self-pity, or evasion.
“We have sinned,” he said honestly. “For almost twenty years, the abbey has taken rent from land that belongs by right to the heirs of Heregod of Longdon. We have sinned against them and we will pay full recompense. Bedwyn Abbey will restore those two hides to its lawful holder and repay every penny that was harvested from them.”
The simplicity of his public confession added to its force. He swung round to face the four commissioners.
“Bear with me,” he requested. “How this has come about, I do not yet know, but I have my suspicions. Let me enquire further into the matter. You have uncovered one forgery. There may be others. I will work swiftly to rid my abbey of every whisper of evil.”
One baleful stare was enough to jerk Baldwin and Matthew to their feet. Abbot Serlo left with the same ethereal tread with which he had entered, but his two companions crept out apprehensively behind him. There would be long and painful discussions within the abbey confines and further tremors would shake its ordered calm.
There was a general murmur of admiration for Abbot Serlo’s performance and even the mocking Hugh de Brionne was for once impressed.
The prelate had been dignified in defeat. He had also set a precedent, and Gervase Bret was quick to seize on it.
“The abbey has admitted its error and offered to pay for it in full,”
he said to Hugh. “Will you follow where they lead? Will you restore those two hides and offer recompense to the injured party?”
Hugh snarled and looked for a way out of his plight, but Ralph Delchard cut off his retreat. He threw a smile of gratitude to Ediva before he rounded on his opponent.
“If you wish to contest the matter,” he threatened, “we will have to call witnesses. The town reeve will be first. He knows better than anyone how that land was obtained.”
Hugh and Saewold coloured as they traded a look. A partnership which had brought mutual benefit to them over two decades had just fallen apart. Ralph somehow knew about the acquisition of two hides from Wulfgeat and he would prosecute his case vigorously. In admitting one abuse of property rights, Hugh might be able to conceal all the others. He stretched himself to his full height and strove for a gallantry that rang quite hollow.
“There is error on our side, too,” he conceded, “and we offer the most humble apologies for the oversight. I give my word as a soldier that it will be put right at once.”
The commissioners were satisfied. Details had yet to be worked out and new documents drawn up, but that could wait. They had carried the day. When Ralph Delchard dismissed the assembly, he was actually given a cheer. Feared and resented when they came to Bedwyn, they had won a better opinion from the town. It would be a happier place for their visit. Hugh de Brionne made straight for Saewold and dragged him out. Ediva lingered to steal a last glance from Ralph.
Canon Hubert congratulated himself on his crucial role in the afternoon’s proceedings and Brother Simon reinforced that illusion by his unctuous flattery.
Leofgifu and Hilda descended on Gervase. They were both overwhelmed by the turn of events. Hilda sobbed with joy.
“It is all mine?” she said in disbelief.
“Yes,” he promised. “You inherit from your husband.”
“Four hides of land?”
“With all the arrears due to you, Hilda. Bedwyn Abbey and the lord of the manor of Chisbury will make you a rich woman between them.”
“What will I do with such wealth?” she wondered.
“Enjoy it,” said Leofgifu. “You deserve it.”